


After the Scorch

by Spiria



Category: Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-25 02:46:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiria/pseuds/Spiria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faramir sees to his ailing father's healing, albeit with some difficulty. In these days of darkness, Éowyn becomes the light of his hopes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The 2nd and 3rd Days

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously, there are some book canon supplements to beef up what little there is in "The Return of the King," so there was a bit of fudging to blend the mediums together. But the story mainly defers to the film adaptation and the portrayals therein, hence Faramir's reservations and Denethor's oh-so-lovely parental skills.

Faramir woke that second morning with a bruise on his right shoulder, where the arrow of the Orcs had struck him on the ride to Osgiliath. He did not wince, though he did suck in a sharp breath at the slight pound that protested his upright position. Glancing down, he saw the barest hint of red under the wrappings and tunic laid over his wound. Odd, that a bruise would be colored red; it must be something else, simply agitated skin.

He rested against the headboard of the bed, breathing deeply. The Warden had made clear yesterday that he was not to leave the Houses of Healing until the tenth day of bed rest had passed, and Faramir knew better from mere sense than to argue. He was still allowed to roam within the Houses. That was a knowledge he took full advantage of when hushed voices of aides rebounded off the chamber walls, shattering his morning calm: _The Steward has opened his eyes. But they do not seem to see._  He felt his heart constrict, then pound fiercely; and he crept out of his bed and stole his way out the door.

His aimless search for the chamber in which Denethor resided proved nigh futile, until he had managed to spot an aide hustling room to room. She startled at his presence, then quickly greet him with a most tender smile. He inquired as to the Steward's place, and she pointed him in the direction.

The chamber was not so far from his own: modest and tucked away, cozy, just like every other in the Houses, save the Warden standing rather like a guard in front of Denethor's door. He gave Faramir a light shake of his head.

"Lord Denethor requires time, as you must understand, Lord Faramir," he said.

"Is he well?" asked Faramir. He looked warily at the door, behind which his father was said to lie. A sense of dread began washing over him; rather than press on, it compelled him otherwise.

A grim expression crossed the Warden's face. "He will recover."

Faramir paused, then answered: "I will return tomorrow." To which the Warden conceded and sent the Steward's son back to his modest chamber.

He could have asked for details on what ailed Denethor, but the truth seemed easy. Faramir had regained semi-consciousness that evening to a thick wetness not akin to water, a wetness that was, for some reason, hot around his waist, before he had caught a whiff of smoke and an anguished cry. Then he had opened his heavy eyes and seen it for himself, long enough for Denethor to leap over his prone form and for Faramir to hear a sharp crack and a thud. And that was all he remembered: his father, burning and screaming.

Returning to his bed, Faramir sat on his sheet and gently rubbed his shoulder. He stayed inside for the rest of the day, as per the Warden's wishes; and that night he dreamed of a raging, if sad, fire that licked at the blackness.

 

There was a bit of pain that morning. Faramir went to the garden, finding that walking and overall movement helped to ease the discomfort that had sprung from yesterday evening. The Warden was informed vaguely. The symptoms sounded simple enough, perhaps speaking for restless muscles or persistent bruises around his arrow wounds. Faramir was also quite weary, but the intake of fresh air, though dark the sky was, cleared his clouded mind.

He was leaning against a pillar when the Warden announced his entrance. He was accompanied by a woman; Faramir's eyes fell on her, and he pushed himself off the architecture, feeling his right arm tighten. The Warden introduced the Lady of Rohan, Éowyn.

"She sought the Steward; however, Lord Denethor still rests, so she was to be sent here," said the Warden.

"Is there something you wish to ask of the Steward?" Faramir asked her.

"Yes," Éowyn answered plainly with a smidgen of buried resolve: "I desire to ride out to battle. They have already gone, yet still I am refused leave."

Faramir inclined his head to the side. Then he pardoned the Warden and walked over to the Lady of Rohan, his gaze inquisitive and grave but tender. "If you are here, you've already done your part. Why pursue the Captains, who have by now gained two days ahead of you?"

"I seek glory in death—like the King of Rohan, who found his and peace in the last battle." She paused, her lips pursed. "I should have found the same there. Instead I am here, this . . . " she trailed, her eyes wandering as she bit the word on her tongue.

"Cage?" Faramir guessed. His brows quirked at Éowyn's rigid nod, and her grit did not escape his notice. He, too, nodded knowingly. "Well, my lady, I'm afraid there is nothing I can do for you. It is the Warden's will." And that of his king, who was among those that had departed for Mordor. The place Éowyn wanted nothing more than to be at and Faramir accepted not to be at. "But if it is within my power as the regent, I will do whatever else I can. Tell me: how may I be of service to you?"

The Warden had only just pawned off the Steward's power to him in this garden during this very visit, and though he was far from eager to seize the granted authority, Faramir would, and resolved, to provide his father and the Lady their due comfort.

Éowyn did not look too pleased; however, the severity of her eyes subsided and was replaced with new tenderness. She conveyed her next wish to look toward Mordor. Her current chamber did not allow this viewing, and if she was to be denied passage out of Minas Tirith, she would at the least like to watch and face the looming darkness head-on. She spoke not as a grief-stricken maiden, but as a mighty warrior risen from among the fallen.

"Then it will be done," said Faramir, eyes watching Éowyn. "And now you know that the walls of this garden, too, face east. If you should desire the air beyond your chamber, you may find them both here."

She regarded him with all the stoicism of a soldier: subdued and proud—then suddenly sharp and warm all at once. Her face twitching, Éowyn excused herself with quiet thanks before slipping inside, past the Warden's emerging figure.

"See to it that the Lady of Rohan is given a room facing east." Faramir shifted so that his weight leaned on one foot. "She went to war?"

The Warden answered: "She did so. And she felled many Orcs, though her arm suffered much."

"Really?"

"She was healed by the hand of the king, and now rests to recover her strength." The Warden shook his head. "There was a Halfling who accompanied her. He was brought in in the evening. He would know of the Lady's deeds best, having beheld them with his own eyes."

Faramir's thoughts strayed to Pippin. It must be the fourth, discounting Frodo and Samwise. "I would like to speak with him, if he is allowed visitors."

"More than that!" the Warden replied. "He is in fine shape, dare I say finer than yours. I will fetch him immediately."

The Halfling introduced himself as Merry. He was the close friend and cousin of Pippin, and although they shared few resemblance, Faramir believed it. It was not unfounded for even brothers to be strikingly different, and he saw in Merry the same flightiness that Pippin had exuded despite dark times (as well as the same bottomless pit, he would learn later). They talked about the younger Hobbit for a while, until Faramir saw his chance in Merry's reverence for Éowyn and asked him of her.

"You slayed the Witch-king?" Faramir asked with a raised brow.

"My lady did," corrected Merry. "But not before I got his back!"

"Impressive." And he meant it. He saw Merry rub his sword arm and asked, "How's your arm?"

Merry perked at the question and answered with haste, "Much better. Whatever they've got here, it's good stuff!"

"The Houses of Healing strives to be a place where its patients may heal in comfort. I'm glad to hear that it pleases you." Faramir's right hand twitched, clenching slightly. He moved it behind his loose tunic, away from Merry's view.

Though Faramir had never been the best at carrying conversation, preferring to respond when spoken to, they continued into early evening. Merry never seemed to run out of subjects to discuss, brief as they were. They were simply numerous. He rambled with a clipped wit that distinguished him from Pippin, and it took that one day for Faramir to deem Meriadoc Brandybuck a perceptive Hobbit, indeed. When at last their words died down, replaced by thoughtful silence that teetered on awkward, Faramir thanked Merry's generosity and retired to his chamber.

In the comfort of his bed, though it wasn't truly his, Faramir mulled over today's events. Not just of Éowyn, whose courage and beauty did something to his heart, but also of Merry and the dozen chambers he had passed on his way down, all housing the wounded; some faring better than others, and those whose aides looked upon with sad eyes, for they would not wake or only do so to feel the ache of their injury. They were breathing corpses, stifling the low hopes of themselves and those around them. Except that they lived was an ironic flint for hope of another kind, as if forgotten peace would rise with their resilience to bless their beaten pride.

Unlike the mighty Lady, he had not half a mind to pursue the marching army to the gates of Mordor. He was bound to the will of his king, and to prepare Minas Tirith for his sure return. There was nothing else left to believe in. Yet his mind tingled in protest at that thought, and he was relieved of his rumination when the Warden pressed a bowl of soup at his hands, bidding him to finish his long due supper.

The Steward was still not ready to receive him, the Warden relayed apologetically. Faramir shook his head in understanding and took the bowl without protest. Tomorrow, he decided as he sipped the broth, he would visit his father for certain.


	2. The 4th Day

Faramir broke fast in the early morning. He took the meager proportions he was given, mindful of keeping his body sated without excessive intake, then placed the tray at the foot of the bed when he finished. He got out rather lamely, for he felt languid despite the good sleep, hunching forward and pressing his palms against the bed for a time. The sheets became mussed under the applied force. He left them as they were, expecting that he would have to return soon after the impending visit to his father.

Although no Warden stood in front of the door to stop him, he did so on his own. For a while he stared ahead, studying the plain door before he finally rapped it with his left hand (he was wary of drawing the right, now stiff since yesterday's minor episode, into a fist).

The sound of his knock was dull, and when no answer came in ten heartbeats he called, "Father?"

He had half a mind to berate himself when silence alone still greeted him. Then he rationalized that Denethor was, judging from the pensive shake of the Warden's head last evening, in no position to be wandering even in the modest confines of the healing chamber; and so with a heavy intake of breath, Faramir pushed. The whiny creak of the door announced his entrance, at the same time that he let go of the air he'd mustered.

Denethor lay on the standard bed of the Houses of Healing, asleep with a blanket pulled up to his waist. His chest was bared for the world to see if not for the thick layer of bandages hugging him, and the wrapped arm that rested on it, but from where he stood, Faramir could not assess the whole extent of the damage. Suddenly conscious of his steps, he stepped as lightly as he could over to the prone form, though now and then his toes dragged against the floor as a sharp reminder of his lack of energy.

He ignored the stool nearby and instead stood at his father's bedside. There, he leered with a disturbing calm.

Old bandages swallowed half of Denethor's face. Angry red marks protruded from beneath, however, and traveled down his neck to slip under more bandages around his torso, as if they were eager to eat him whole from the outside under cover. Bloody blisters littered the old, grief-stricken body, and no amount of intervention from the aides and Warden would help entirely, for Faramir plainly saw that the damage was too deep for easy treatment. There would be scars. There already were.

In a fit of morbidity, Faramir thought how his father was fortunate to be able to breathe through his nose, which had been spared from the flames of the pyre—for what else could have done him in so? His appearance would suffer, for as of now, in the beginnings of his hopeful recovery, Denethor was a gruesome heap of burnt skin. And his arm, the one that lay on his stomach, was probably sprained.

Faramir could not bear to lift a hand. He feared, out of some irrational fear, that his father would turn to ashes and escape through the cracks between his fingers. Or that he would snap awake and bat the offending thing aside, with unsuppressed rage full of spittle and resistant to healing. Faramir wished not to exacerbate his father's suffering.

The Warden had made clear through his mindful tone that Denethor still grieved. Faramir was no fool: Denethor would always grieve, for he had loved too dearly, and that dearness had been ripped away from the aged, once proud-filled hands that had grasped his son, the celebrated pride and joy of Gondor. The loss had killed him from the inside, afflicted him with an incurable illness. An illness of the heart had effects on the body, and the burns would exploit that vulnerability if ever they came to head with it, just as the Palantír had. Perhaps sleep, therefore, was a better option for tragedy-stricken Denethor than burning alive from grief.

Faramir was uncertain if he could rescue his father from the madness-inducing depression, and he was not at all eager to test the extent of the damage.

Or perhaps it was too late, he considered all of a sudden at a murmur that made his shoulders and thoughts jump. Denethor's head had lolled slightly to the side, such that they were now facing each other, but the old man remained in deep sleep, rather a nightmare. He was murmuring, sweating profusely, and looked more than a little miserable. Still, Faramir let him sleep, even as something gripped his insides and twisted cruelly—and within seconds, Faramir was nauseous and quite nearly stumbled out of the chamber.

 

It was mid-morning when Faramir reached the garden in a sluggish bid for fresh air. His breath hitched when he noticed the golden head of Éowyn, who stood beside a column and gazed eastward. She had not yet noticed him, and her ignorance to his presence allowed Faramir a precious moment to collect himself despite the persistent nausea. For though her attention was on Mordor, a lady so deserving as she did not earn the cold hand of solitude in a cage.

"You came," he said lightly as he strode on over with renewed strength. "Are you still due your new chamber?"

Éowyn started and turned. For a short moment, she had seemed ready to lunge, but her gentler disposition took its place when she saw his face.

"No," she said, "but I thought I would see from here first."

Faramir nodded, passing the fountain to her side. His pace was slow, careful to not upset his stomach any further. It was extra caution on his part; seeing Éowyn's good health, considering her reasons for having been placed in the Houses, did something to invigorate him. He was all the more appreciative of her for it, whether or not she was aware of it.

"The garden offers many things. A good view is one of them."

"It is all I have left," said Éowyn. She turned away, forlorn, as she yearned for the untouchable east.

"Is it?" asked Faramir, doubt lacing his words. When Éowyn glanced over her shoulder, she looked incredulous—offended, even, with wide eyes that betrayed her pride which was now on the defensive. He continued: "I do not mean to offend, my lady. I simply do not believe this garden to be a mere shadow of your desire."

"And what does that mean? That I have something to fight in this very garden, when the battle is to be waged on the grounds of Mordor? The Orcs no longer roam the plains of Minas Tirith. There is no worth that I may prove here," she said, all of this quickly. Just as fast did regret appear to sink in, and she averted her gaze downward, her lips parted in thought. "I'm sorry."

Appraising her reaction, Faramir watched Éowyn without scorn, rather with understanding accompanied by a comprehensive look. He was now uncertain of his earlier assessment of her, where he had fancied her a warrior; a shieldmaiden. She was what she was, and if she was a shieldmaiden, then she was; but there was ever more underlying that fiery passion for a taste of glory she had been denied, and Faramir thought the title did her short. She was not so hardened beyond her maidenly qualities that she did not know gentleness, for she was ripe with it. However, she was also heavy at heart.

His weary foot shifted with purpose, pointing outward to the heart of the garden.

"Come, my lady," he said at last, motioning. He left her apology hanging, finding it was not in his place to neither accept nor reject her grief.

He took her a few strides in before stopping by a cluster of plants and flowers hugging a tree. Éowyn moved unsurely to his side, and Faramir raised his hand to hover about her back, some distance placed in-between out of respect, as he gestured for her to look.

"They're flowers," she said. She craned her neck, inquiring.

Nodding, Faramir replied: "Yes, they are. They've all grown quite well." Then he waded through the bunches to the tree behind them and laid his left hand on it. "And so has this."

Éowyn still stood on the other side of the flowers when he waited for her response and received none. He felt her gaze on his back and pressed at her quietude: "Some of these will be used to make medicine. To heal the ailing." He thought of his father, and wondered whether the herbs would do him any good. "Even before then, they provide some comfort in the way of their beauty."

He finally beckoned for her to cross. She gripped at the hem of her dress to avoid disturbing the plants as she did, and he was already sitting under the tree when she reached him. She stared, uncertain, then threw a last longing look eastward and joined Faramir at his level, the long fabric of her dress brushing against him while she settled. Éowyn's back was now to the place of her desire, and she soon found that the flowers, dancing delicately in the slightest breeze as though teasing her restlessness, drew her away from her bloody musings. Eventually, unrealized tension slipped away from her battered form, and she relaxed.

They spent most of the day there in the serene silence, until Éowyn abruptly rose to her feet and scuttled off inside. Faramir watched her departure, no objections escaping his lips, before he, too, retired to his chamber shortly thereafter.


	3. The 5th Day

Sleep came fleetingly for Faramir.

He woke in the dawn without drowsiness, still robbed of energy as he was yesterday. In a fit of irony, his hands were clenched into tight fists, fingertips glued to the palm by some muscle memory of a gesture he didn't remember making in his sleep. The left hand unraveled easily enough; the right proved more troublesome, and he had to mind the healing shoulder wound; but when at last he uncurled both fists, they relaxed like a deep sigh expelled from a troubled soul.

The overall sensation from start to finish had vaguely reminded him of an iron grip over a sword hilt. He had not held a sword since he'd fallen on the ride to Osgiliath, and while his grip then had been impressive enough, a physical testament to his willingness to ride to the death for Gondor, it was improbable that its ghost would haunt his hands now.

The air drifting in through the window was cold and inviting, for Faramir had perspired some in his sleep. He made to rise, and recoiled when his feet touched the floor and a sharp pain shot up his leg. Seated at the edge of the bed, he threw the half-draped sheet aside and rested the offending leg on his lap: the foot was tight. Though hesitant to channel strength into his problematic hands, he gripped his foot and kneaded the muscles, coaxing them to unwind eventually with steady effort. Then he attempted another stand, and this time he could, despite the awkward coldness of his neglected foot compared to the warmth the other had soaked in.

He wandered to the window and was immediately assailed by a sudden breeze. It chilled his clammy skin, but Faramir welcomed its uplifting caress, which contrasted with the eerie stillness of Ithilien and Osgiliath.

He had not set foot on either since the battle on the Pelennor Fields, and he wondered at what changes he might feel upon resuming his captaincy. Surely the birds would chirp and sing (far from the foreboding signals of the Rangers), the animals steal carelessly across treaded paths, and the winds dance between trees and along crevices. And the rest to be determined later on when the cold breeze hit him again, luring him from his imaginations. Which would, he hoped, turn to reality soon enough.

He favored the window into the morning, and he broke fast against the sill with a bowl of the stuff in his hand, precarious as that could have been. To his credit, he carefully laid the spoon against the edge of the bowl when the Warden of the Houses all but threw himself against the door, and as carefully placed them both on a small table nearby when he was told thus: "Lord Denethor has awoken."

 

The Steward of Gondor was not himself, or at least not in his right mind. He was certainly not right in appearance, for the bandages had been replaced and the blisters persisted, and his back was married to the propped up pillow as if he would fall without the support. Even hunched in the throne room he had looked big and impressionable; here, straighter though he sat, he was none of that.

The Warden had neglected to say Denethor's ailing condition, yet he had done so with tact and Faramir did not fault him for it. Instead, he gave a soft nod and was allowed time alone. Had it been anyone else, the Warden would have stayed: But Faramir seldom asked for anything and had the Warden's trust to be patient and careful, so he would be an exception. All of this was agreed upon with not a single word uttered at the door of the Steward.

Denethor was staring at him, and though his eyes were fixed they were also searching aimlessly, ruthlessly; and upon noticing the sheen of Faramir's hair, he reached out with his good arm. His lips quivered in a feeble attempt to smile.

"My son," he said, his voice high with hope and coarse with fatigue. "My son, come to me."

With a heavy heart, Faramir squared his shoulders and obeyed. His wounds protested with a quick throb in their respective places, but he elected to ignore it and the way his chest pounded mercilessly with each foot of distance he closed between himself and his father. There was no scrutiny in Denethor's eyes; merely longing, yearning, and the deep signs of heartache too great for his tried soul—a vulnerability that greatly disconcerted Faramir, and he did his father well by hiding the growing disturbance behind an expression of impassiveness. His eyes alone would tell the truth and they were safe: Denethor held them but seemed to see nothing.

Denethor reached for him and missed by a few inches. Faramir was a Man of definition, unquestionably a skilled figure; but Boromir had always been bigger and stronger, more reassuring to hold onto, and it was an unspeakable pity that he could not stand here in his little brother's stead for their father to feel his comforting frame. And for him to feel the warm hand cleaned of sweat not too long ago.

What their father did not know could not hurt him, so Faramir kept his silence and maintained the severe posture. To his dismay, Denethor gripped just above his injury with startling power (afraid to let go, no doubt), and in spite of his best efforts he was unable to hold back the instinctual tensing of his muscles. When it was apparent that the motion had gone by unnoticed, it was a small mercy that pardoned his relaxation, to the point his shoulders slumped, lost of their fabricated size, and nothing was said even then.

It was all unusual and troubling, given Denethor's shrewd gift for picking up the slightest signs of any- and everything.

"You are cold," muttered Denethor, searching Faramir's face wearily, "like one dead. Warm yourself, Boromir."

Faramir had feared his father the most since his early adulthood, haunted by the desire for recognition that he had never earned and the pain of the love that felt seldom returned. And Faramir feared him still: he feared that he had lost Denethor's love somewhere along his adolescence to the insurmountable stress of Gondor's future ailing the Steward, and that he was doomed to never receive it again—in openness and blunt honesty, for his father must care to continue considering him a son.

It was a logical consolation he could find hope in when, even like this, Denethor put him on the backburner.

Mithrandir's words rang in his distant memory, of a love that would be rekindled before the end. Mithrandir was a wise one, and Faramir held to his imparted wisdom with the utmost fervency. But he couldn't refrain from burning with uncertainty inside, petrified by the prospective gravity of a single slip up that might break Denethor's delicate state.

Even now, in a chamber in the Houses of Healing, there was no other that he was more afraid of looking in the face than the perpetually grieving Steward of the Gondor, who more than ever appeared impossible to appease. Boromir could have done so in the beat of a passionate heart, but he was as cold as Denethor had grumbled and Faramir, too, was cold from exposing his thinly clothed self all dawn and morning. It was in fact more difficult now than before: Denethor was lost in some delusional happiness, and he could only be robbed of it when he came to a modicum of sense—if he did at all.

He pitied his father. The realization struck him in the gut and he broke eye contact, discomfited; and drew a similar reaction from Denethor, whose quivering smile wavered and his lips turned down, eyebrows knit together in concern.

It was Denethor who recovered with a smaller smile. Thinking that Boromir was tired, he bid him to a good, warm rest that would beat the cold out of his body, and was obvious about his hopes for a visit in the near future. Faramir had nodded, and, unwilling to further deceive his father, took hasty strides in his leave. In the midst of his turn, his heart palpitated at the catch of Denethor's suddenly sober expression, and what seemed to be a growing frown—

The Warden was standing against an adjacent wall when the door closed behind Faramir. His nature as a healer saw the looming tension and wisely said nothing, rather giving a curt nod before he entered the chamber, himself.

Faramir paced.

 

Éowyn found him with his back to the east and a hand gripping the edge of the fountain. She glanced at him, then eastward, then flounced over to a tree that kept Mordor just out of its view and perched beneath it. The plants there hugged her dress, and before she set about making herself comfortable, asked in a clear, booming voice that contrasted against his quietude if he should like to sit with her.

Though her call did not shock him, the nature of her question came as a pleasant surprise, that Faramir studied her for a moment before deciding he would, and he joined her without a word.

 

He leaned against the door and sneaked a glance inside the chamber that night. When he saw the slumbering heap that was Denethor, he left.


End file.
